The Way the World Ends (The Evolution Gene Book 3) Page 2

  “And deny you the chance to let off some steam?” Jasmine laughed. “I don’t think so. We don’t need that kind of anger bottled up in our little prison.”

  Liz scowled. “You weren’t so different…not long ago.”

  Jasmine stilled. “Yes…” She glanced away, the mocking smile slipping from her lips. “And look where that got us.”

  A strained silence hung over the alleyway, until Liz kicked a can, sending it rattling across the concrete. With a sigh, she let the subject drop. “Well, what do you want?”

  The only time Liz saw Jasmine or the others on her nightly forays was when they needed something. Unfortunately, their heightened sense of smell meant these days tracking each other down was becoming easier and easier.

  “What? Can’t a girl enjoy an early flight to stretch her wings?”

  Now it was Liz’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “What is it, Jasmine?” she pressed. “What’s happened?”

  Jasmine shrugged and spread her wings. They filled the alley, her emerald feathers catching in the first rays of daylight. “I’ll explain on the way.” She grinned. “You’re not going to like it.”

  She lifted off before anything more could be said, and all Liz could do was follow.

  1

  Sam’s wings creaked as he settled on the smooth granite surface. The stone was slick beneath his feet, still wet from the night’s dew, and he took a moment to balance himself. The top of the obelisk on which he stood formed a half pyramid, with the tip sliced flat rather than the usual point. He supposed someone had suggested the change to differentiate Independence Monument from the Washington Monument—although by then that old relic would have been long gone, burned away by the nuclear blast that had engulfed the American capital two decades ago.

  Skyscrapers towered around the obelisk, their silent glass walls staring down at Sam’s solitary perch. Absently, he wondered if today would be the day someone finally noticed him, but he doubted it. He had been coming here for weeks now, winging his way through the skies before the dawn’s light broke over the city. It was a good place to think, to watch and listen to the activity taking place below. With his enhanced senses, he had little trouble see those below, while it would be all but impossible for his audience to spot him perched seven hundred feet above them.

  Now he scanned the crowds, wondering how the world had spiraled so far out of control. Thousands of refugees packed the square, camping out on the cold tiles, beneath the trees surrounding the obelisk, on the sidewalks and benches—wherever they could find even a hint of shelter. They had come from all across California, from small rural towns and villages, fleeing the scourge of the Chead. Rumors abounded of great packs of the creatures roaming the countryside, driving people from their homes, slaughtering them with wanton abandon. Desperate and afraid, those who survived had abandoned their homes and fled to the one place they believed safe.

  San Francisco.

  But their plight had made them easy targets for the government’s draft. Thousands of their youth had already been conscripted into the army. Many even went willingly, believing the official line that Texas was behind the spread of the Chead virus.

  Those below were the ones who had escaped selection—people too old or young to be of use. Yet after their long journey in search of shelter, they now found themselves shunned by a city and a people unmoved by their plight. Ruled by fear, the urbanites had slammed their doors in the faces of their fellow citizens. No one dared risk inviting a soon-to-be Chead into their home.

  So, homeless and alone, the refugees gathered in the streets and parks, making homes for themselves wherever they could.

  Watching the first of them stir, Sam couldn’t help but think they might be the lucky ones. It was the fate of their children that worried him, that kept him up at night, haunting his dreams.

  Because he knew all too well what the government was capable of, what they would do with all those young bodies. Halt might be dead, but his project lived on. Sam had seen to that. Somewhere out there, in the mountains, beneath the earth, somewhere, the experiments continued.

  How many of the conscripted youth would find themselves in cages instead of battlefields?

  He closed his eyes, shivering as Ashley’s words echoed in his mind.

  Halt used me, Sam. He used me to get to you. If any other kids die in their vile experiments, it will be my fault as much as yours. We have to stop them, before they hurt anyone else.

  Gritting his teeth, Sam carefully lowered himself onto the cold granite and dangled his legs over the side. He tried and failed to ignore the awful pain of Ashley’s loss. How long had it been now, since that fateful day? Three weeks? Four?

  He pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, trying to keep the tears from his eyes. Hard as it was, he had to move on, had to focus on living. It was the only way he would find the strength he needed to fulfill Ashley’s final wish—to put an end to the government’s vile experiments. Spreading the truth about what the others had discovered at the university had been his sole purpose since recovering from his bullet wound.

  For decades, the people of the Western Allied States had suffered the scourge of the Chead. For decades they had suffered, battling an enemy they could not see. Texas had been blamed, but the Lone Star State had never had any hand in the virus.

  It had been their own government all along. The leaders of the WAS had needed a distraction from their own malicious deeds, and a patsy on which to blame all the ills that befell their young nation. Texas and the Chead had served their purpose well, giving the President and his Director the pretext to increase their powers time and again.

  Broadcasting that truth to the nation had become an obsession for Sam, but it mattered little. Apart from the Madwomen and their limited allies, he was pretty sure everyone else in the world thought he was insane.

  I miss you, Ash.

  He cast the thought into the void, wondering if somewhere, she was thinking the same thing—though he knew it was impossible. He had held out hope for days after the university massacre. After everything they had been through—the trials and the torture, the bullet wounds and imprisonment, how could she possibly be alive?

  Days had turned to weeks, and the only story to emerge was that two fugitives had been involved in the attack on the university and had been killed by government operatives. They’d plastered Ashley and Chris’s faces all over the television, as the Director crowed of their demise.

  Beside her always was the translator Jonathan, with his trustworthy face and easy smile. He would nod along to everything the woman said, before stepping up to play his role in their little act. With teary eyes he would explain how hard the government was working to bring his family’s murderers to justice, how much it meant for him to see their deaths avenged.

  It made Sam sick to his stomach that he’d ever trusted the man.

  In the end, he’d been forced to admit the truth. If Ashley or Chris had been captured, the Director would have happily staged an execution for the whole world to see.

  No, Ashley was gone, her life snuffed out, as if it had never been.

  If only I had been there…

  He forced the thought back down. Wallowing in regret would not help him now. With the bullet wound in his leg, he had been in no state to go with the others to the university. He would have only been a liability. If he’d joined them, no one would have gotten out alive.

  Sam sat up as the tone of the whispers below changed. Leaning out over the ledge, he watched a group of old women make their way through the crowd. His heart lifted as the Madwomen returned to their station around the base of the obelisk. In silence, they began their solemn march, eyes fixed straight ahead, ignoring the soldiers stirring around the square. The green-uniformed men readjusted their rifles, but they made no move to intercept the protesters.

  Since the official story about the attack on the monument had painted the Madwomen as innocent victims, the group had returned to their march in for
ce. With hundreds of refugees now packing the park as witnesses, there was little the government could do to stop them. Only the women still on the wanted list stayed away—such as Chris’s grandmother, Maria.

  Their courage gave Sam hope that things might still change, but their defiance hadn’t come without cost. With the prospect of open war on the horizon, few citizens were willing to stand with them. Even the refugees below, persecuted as they were, directed their hatred at the Texans, for the plague the Lone Star State had supposedly unleashed on their lives. It was a narrative the President and his people had used successfully in the past, and without a way to prove their involvement with the Chead, there was little way to counter it.

  Still, Sam wasn’t about to give up without a fight. Swinging his backpack from his shoulders, he unpacked the shortwave radio and placed it on the granite surface. He quickly looked over the steel box, ensuring everything was still in one piece, then picked up the transmitter. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Each morning he had been broadcasting to anyone who would listen, although he had no way of knowing how many that might be. He might be talking to ghosts for all he knew.

  Clearing his throat, Sam lifted the transmitter and spoke: “Good morning, America! Testing, testing, one…two…three. Is anybody out there? Hey, isn’t that from some song about a war? Someone with the internet look that up for me would ya…” He paused and then laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought, phone lines are dead. Guess you’re all in bed still or something. Come on, it’s only…oh my god it’s 6a.m., maybe I should go back to bed myself.”

  Standing, Sam moved to the edge of the platform. He still held the transmitter, its long cord stretching out behind him. “On second thought, it’s a beautiful morning here in San Fran. Why don’t you make a start to the day instead? There’s a lot of people here in Independence Square who’ve had a hard night’s sleep—come down and see for yourself! Or are you still listening to our noble dictator’s wild tales of covert operatives and foreign spies?”

  Sam sighed audibly into the microphone. “Yeah, thought so. Sad to think we’ve all become such suspicious creatures. Time was a madman could claim he’d build a 2000-mile-long wall and we’d believe him. Maybe I should ask the President for an interview…think he’d let me talk this time? Haven’t you wondered why I never said anything, standing there beside him with my wings out, like some pet chimp?”

  He paused, remembering that day on the stage, the crowds thronging the streets around Fisherman’s Wharf. What if he’d said something then? If he’d stepped forward and told them all it was all a scam?

  Don’t look back. He took a breath and forged on.

  “I was in Independence Square too, when the attack went down. But I wasn’t fighting for the government. I took a bullet fighting off their soldiers, protecting the widows of our veterans. Just come down and ask the Madwomen, they’ll tell you the truth.”

  Releasing the transmit button, he chuckled to himself. No doubt he was coming off as stark raving mad to anyone listening. “Still not convinced? How about if I told you the government was behind the Chead? That they created them twenty years ago, and have been using them to control us ever since? What’s that? You think I’m crazy? That I should be locked up in a mental asylum?”

  He paused to take a breath before continuing: “Too bad, budget cuts got rid of ‘em all. Guess a shift in Alcatraz will have to do. Maybe I’ll fly over and hand myself in. That’s right, I have wings remember?”

  Taking a break, Sam leaned out over the edge. A touch of vertigo swept through him, despite the wings sprouting from his back. His lips tightened as the Madwomen continued their march. Sadness touched him as he counted their numbers and noted several more absentees. He shook his head, wondering where they got their courage.

  The fact that the Director couldn’t act openly against them had only slowed her crusade. Over the past four weeks, dozens of the Madwomen had gone missing. At first they’d thought the women had merely given up. But when their houses were found empty, it became clear something more sinister was behind their disappearances.

  Still the marches continued. Some had taken refuge in safe houses dotted throughout the city, but most refused to be driven from their homes. They stood in open defiance against the threat of violence—and paid for it with their lives.

  Sam bit his lip as he lifted the microphone again, taking on a more serious tone. “Look, I know you have no reason to believe a disembodied voice on the radio. Heck, a few months ago I would have been at the head of the queue baying for my blood. But I’m telling you, every word I’ve said is true. I know you don’t want to believe it, that you want to stay safe in your own little world, ignoring the voices outside screaming for help. But it won’t work. They’re coming for us, for all of us, and whether you stay in your bubble or not, one day it’ll be your turn. So come down to Independence Square, look at what’s happening here. Speak to the Madwomen, listen to their stories. And decide for yourself what the truth is.”

  Sam sucked in a long breath and switched off the shortwave. Exhausted by his outburst, he sat down too quickly and almost slid off the side of the pyramid. Recovering, he leaned forward and placed his head in his hands, feeling the oil in his long brown hair. He needed a haircut, but there had been no time to keep up with things like personal grooming. His palms brushed the soft fuzz of his beard, and he wondered what Ashley would have thought of it.

  Lying on his back, he rested his head against the cold stone and closed his eyes. Despite his weariness, he fought the pull of sleep. It wasn’t safe to stay here—not in daylight. He had to leave, had to return to the safe house before it got any brighter. Even so, he was loath to desert his friends below.

  His ears twitched, catching the faint whisper of wings from overhead. Opening his eyes, he watched as Mira’s small form settled down beside him. Her mismatched blue and green eyes watched him closely as she folded her slate-grey wings behind her back. The wind gusted around her, lashing at her grey hair until she reached up and pushed it to the side.

  “What are you doing here, Mira?” Sam asked, sitting up. “You could have been spotted.”

  Mira stood on the edge of the obelisk and looked down at the crowd. “They don’t see good,” she commented. “What are you doing…up here?”

  Sam sighed. “Thinking. Watching.” He forced a smile. “What about you, Mira? To what do I owe the honor?”

  “Honor?” Mira’s brow creased as she returned and seated herself beside him. “What do you mean, honor?”

  Sam sighed. “Never mind. I just meant, what brings you up here? My captivating radio show?”

  Mira wrinkled her nose. “Liz is more fun.”

  Sam rolled his eyes. “Just because she spends her nights beating up soldiers…” He trailed off as he saw the glimmer in Mira’s eyes. He scowled as a mischievous smile spread across the girl’s face. “Okay, troublemaker, what’s the news?”

  “Not supposed to say.” Smiling, she lay back and looked at the sky. “Secret.”

  “So what are you doing here?” he sighed. Talking with the strange girl was like conversing with a brick wall.

  Mira had lifted her legs until they were perpendicular to her hips, but now they flicked back down, her wings extending at the same time, propelling her to her feet. Sam raised his eyebrows, waiting for a response.

  Instead, she wandered back to the edge of the obelisk. “You have to promise…not to get mad,” she said, glancing back at him, “that’s what Jasmine said.”

  Groaning, Sam lifted himself to his feet. “I promise.”

  “Good.” Mira smiled, her face lighting up like Christmas. “Let’s go.”

  She stretched her wings and crouched at the edge of the obelisk, but before she could take off something below caught her attention. “Oh,” she murmured, casting a sheepish glance over her shoulder. “I think…they’ve seen us now.”

  Sam muttered a choice curse under his breath as the first shout carried up to them. Steppin
g up beside Mira, he shook his head. The soldiers at the edge of the square were gesturing up at them. Several began pushing their way through the crowd towards the obelisk, as though that would somehow bring them closer to the winged fugitives seven hundred feet above them.

  Scowling, Sam glanced at Mira. “Brat,” he muttered.

  She only grinned back at him. “Shall we go?

  2

  Mike’s head whipped back with an audible thud as the guard’s fist slammed into his forehead. He slumped forward in the chair, blood dripping from his cracked lips, a faint moan escaping his emaciated chest. Before he could recover, the guard swung again, a left hook that sent the imprisoned Texan reeling sideways. Only the steel shackles strapping Mike to his chair kept him from falling.

  Chris watched on, a silent spectator to the Texan’s torture. A steel helmet with a full-faced visor concealed Chris’s features, and the skintight polyester uniform he wore made him a clone to the other guards standing around the room. Only the wings sprouting from his back gave him away. Those, and the steel collar strapped tight around his neck.

  On the other side of the room, Ashley stood in a matching outfit. The sleek black material clung to her figure, leaving little to the imagination. Red hair tumbled down from the back of her helmet, and her wings were half-spread, the slightest of tremors running through her white feathers. Around her neck, the collar shone in the harsh glow of the overhead lights.

  Mike coughed blood as the guard drove a punch into his stomach. Chris’s heart went out to the man. In the four weeks since their capture, he had watched Mike wilt before his eyes. His bronzed Texan skin had faded to grey, and it seemed now that a man in his sixties sat in the chair. There was little left of the man who had bounded around the safe house back in San Francisco.

  Chris made no move to aid him as the beating continued. He had learned during his first week it was every man for himself here. Even while his wing and ribs were still healing, the Director had brooked no disobedience. No transgression, however small, went unpunished. And while she lacked Doctor Halt’s deranged taste for violence, she was well-versed in the art of breaking men—mind and body.